


the realm of extreme possibility

by naughtyskeletonpuns (badskeletonpuns)



Category: King Falls AM (Podcast)
Genre: A teeny bit of angst, Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, The X-Files References, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 01:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17458178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskeletonpuns/pseuds/naughtyskeletonpuns
Summary: Sammy and Ben have a lot of feelings about each other. And also sex. They have sex. Nebulously current with general canon but vague on specifics.





	the realm of extreme possibility

**Author's Note:**

> **DR. DIAMOND:** Well maybe in the jungles of New Guinea or, it's just highly unlikely that what you're suggesting could've survived civilization, a revolution, out in the woods of New Jersey.  
>  **MULDER:** Yeah, highly unlikely, but not outside the realm of extreme possibility?  
>  **DR. DIAMOND:** Well, it would be an amazing discovery.

Sammy’s good at not looking. You don’t have a secret boyfriend-then-fiance while also being an intolerant asshole on the radio without getting good at  _ not _ looking,  _ not _ touching,  _ not _ grinning helplessly whenever Jack made some dumb joke just because he knew Sammy would think it was funny. 

Ben, Sammy has begun to realize, does not share that talent. 

They’re out at Rose’s after their show. Sammy looks up from his breakfast, and Ben will be beaming at him like he’s rain in a desert. Sammy smiles back because he can’t resist, and Ben flushes red and shoves pancakes into his mouth at dangerous speeds. 

Another time, there’s an ad break just after an unintentionally hilarious conversation with Doyle. Sammy’s been channeling the bits of Shotgun Sammy that don’t hurt to say, needling Ben and Doyle both until Ben has to hang up and turn on an ad so he can fall apart into gales of laughter. 

Ben never learned the—the game, Sammy would call it. The dance of touching and not touching because you’re not sure if the other guy is gonna hate you once he realizes what you’re asking for without words, not sure if he’s going to breathe a sigh of relief, or wrinkle his nose and ghost you—or, worse, look at you with all that  _ pity _ . And then ghost you anyway, because, you know, straight dudes. 

Ben’s not playing that particular game. He doesn’t treat Sammy like he treated Emily, like she was a painting on a wall that he was supposed to pine after without ever letting himself touch. He grabs Sammy’s wrist to lead him places and leans into him when he laughs too hard to sit up straight. There are more than a few moments like that, when Ben is laughing hard enough that he’s wheezing, pressing his head against Sammy’s shoulder and grabbing at Sammy’s arm to stay upright, and Sammy will be sitting there thinking that there’s no way he can handle another night of this. 

His self control has to break at some point, right? 

Sammy isn’t even sure Ben knows he’s flirting. 

He’s gotta know. 

They walk out of the studio on each other’s heels. Ben wraps his arms around Sammy from behind and pretends he’s tall enough to see over Sammy’s shoulders, and Sammy thinks that he has  _ got _ to know by now. 

Right? 

Ben and Emily break up, and it’s completely amicable. At least, that’s what they say, and Sammy doesn’t pry. And that night Sammy would swear to every god that ever existed that he catches Ben looking at Sammy’s lips and then touching his own like a goddamn romance novel. Ben has to know. 

But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try anything that couldn’t be somehow construed as platonic in some “bromantic” version of the world, and, well… 

A lifetime of caution does not make for someone good at talking about his feelings. Sammy resolves not to be the one to bring it up. Besides, he tells himself, he’s perfectly fine just being Ben’s friend. Even if Ben fucking lights up when he and Sammy lock eyes, even if the way they joke about the teenage girls of King Falls shipping them steadily becomes less of a joke, even if grabbing onto Sammy’s wrist turns into grabbing his hand…

Sammy’s fine. Completely platonic bromance here only. It doesn’t matter if stuff that’s decidedly more _ro_ mance than _bro_ mance keeps happening. It super, super does not. 

Everything comes to a head on one night in a mess of feelings that absolutely no one could have predicted. 

The two of them are spending the evening hanging out together even though it’s one of their nights off, because they’re attached at the hip these days. 

Sammy supplies the Sofa King beer and Ben supplies the Hulu subscription. Add to that a comfortable couch and the first season of the X-Files, and there are no versions of this evening that don’t end with both men loose-limbed and giggling into each other’s shoulders on the couch. They aren’t even that drunk, but it’s late, and being buzzed is a good enough excuse to be so affectionate with one another without having to face any of it later. 

It’s getting a little too late for Sammy to be able to sober up and go back to his own apartment, and he is seriously hoping Ben hasn’t realized that. 

He’s also maybe hoping that they’ll both crash on the couch, regardless of the neck aches that will undoubtedly result from this particular course of action. 

Look, it is not Sammy’s fault that he would do anything to keep Ben right where he is. It’s Ben’s fault, for being nearly in Sammy’s lap and imitating Mulder, swinging his arms around and insisting “It’s not outside the realm of extreme possibility!” 

Sammy catches Ben’s arms before he gets punched in the face, guides them back down to Ben’s sides. “Slow your roll, Benny,” he’s saying before he can do the smart thing, like let go of Ben’s wrists, or tone down the blatant affection in his voice, or  _ not call Ben ‘Benny,’ Jack-in-the-Box Jesus, what is he thinking? _

Ben snorts a little, tips his head closer to Sammy. “You gonna make me?” he asks, and Sammy’s whole brain shorts out. Ben twists his hands around so their fingers are intertwined. Holy  _ shit _ . Sammy is barely buzzed, but he’s still too drunk to handle this. 

_ Say something _ , his brain hisses at him,  _ anything _ . “Am… I?” he gets out, before being deeply ashamed of every word he has ever said and especially that.  _ Anything but that _ . 

“Sammy,” Ben says. He’s off-balance, tipping forward till he’s got his forehead pressed against Sammy’s cheek. “Don’t be upset! I love you, like… a lot.” Ben giggles to himself, and twists one hand free of Sammy’s to reach up to pet Sammy’s hair.

“Trust me, I am not upset,” says someone other than Sammy who is in charge of his voice right now. It sure isn’t Sammy himself. Sammy is way too busy leaning into Ben’s touch and thinking about how warm Ben’s hand is against his face to say anything at all. 

“I love Emily, too,” Ben is continuing, like he’s talking to himself. “She’s very good. But she’s also—you know.” He pulls back and blinks at Sammy, every inch doe eyes and freckles and stupid grins and all those terrible things Sammy can’t possibly resist. 

He thinks about saying  _ No, I don’t know _ , and having a very serious conversation about feelings while the two of them sober up. 

He thinks about it very deeply for approximately two seconds, and then Ben takes the silence to kiss the side of Sammy’s mouth and mumble something that sounds a hell of a lot like, “She’s cool but she’s… not you.” 

And then Sammy has to kiss Ben. 

It’s the law. 

Ben keeps shifting under Sammy’s hands, squirming in a manner that’s almost distracting enough to take Sammy’s focus away from where their lips meet, heated and soft and clumsy. Sammy doesn’t ever want to stop. 

He wants everything at once—to touch Ben all over, find out what makes him flush bright red and what makes him yelp or sigh or say Sammy’s name. 

Apparently Ben’s squirming had more of a purpose than Sammy suspected, because it’s barely a few seconds later when his full weight hits Sammy’s legs. He huffs out a breath in surprise. Ben straddles him, looking far too pleased with himself for someone with kiss-bitten lips and clothing rumpled from Sammy’s hands. “Hi,” Ben says, and he sounds as breathless as Sammy feels. 

“Hey there,” Sammy shoots back. And then, because it’s  _ right there _ and a man only has so much strength, “How does it feel to seem taller than me for once?” 

“Feels great,” Ben says, refusing to give in to the teasing. He lowers himself, grinds his hips against Sammy’s with purpose. And shit, Ben’s hard, and if Sammy wasn’t already, he sure as hell is now. 

Ben still has one hand in Sammy’s hair, not pulling, just… holding. Their other hands are entwined, and almost on instinct Sammy squeezes. Ben squeezes back without hesitation. 

Sammy’s brain is still stuck a few minutes ago when Benjamin Arnold, his best friend and co-host,  _ kissed him _ . 

It only takes a few more seconds of silence before Ben’s grin falls to concern, and he shifts to tuck himself into Sammy’s arms more gently. He’s got his shoulder pressed against Sammy’s chest now, and there is a not small part of Sammy that’s delighted at how well they fit together. “Is this okay?” he asks, like he can’t feel just how  _ okay  _ Sammy thinks this is. 

Sammy laughs, although it’s really more of a wheeze. “Ben. Ben do you have any idea how long I’ve been—” He cuts himself off and swallows hard. There’s still a chance Ben is just drunk off of contact and beer and missing Emily, that he doesn’t understand how much this would mean to Sammy. How much this would ruin him for anyone else. 

Ben turns and looks Sammy in the face. His eyes are clear, void of the haze of alcohol, and he doesn’t seem to want to look away any time soon. “Sammy,” he says, and the shape of his mouth around Sammy’s name is enough to have Sammy tighten his leg muscles, suppressing the desire to thrust up against Ben. 

It’s highly probable that Ben notices. 

“Sammy,” he says again, and he tugs a little on Sammy’s hair to get his attention. “We don’t have to do anything. We can fall asleep right here on this couch and wake up tomorrow morning and nothing has to change.” 

“I feel like there’s an ‘or’ coming.” He apparently left his filter somewhere on the floor earlier, along with his dignity. 

“I’m getting there,” Ben says. He shakes his head, a dark lock of hair falling into his face. “Look, I—I might not get things right away. King Falls is great, but it’s not exactly the best place to have, like, sexuality epiphanies?” 

“Tonight’s five dollar word is…” Sammy interrupts, raising an eyebrow at Ben. 

Ben tugs on his hair again, this time hard enough to tip Sammy’s head back and expose the long line of his neck. 

Sammy’s breath catches in his throat. 

“You gonna let me finish?” Ben asks, and his voice is uncertain but his hands are sure. 

“Go right ahead,” Sammy murmurs. His eyes are stuck somewhere between the expanse of skin just hinted at where Ben’s shirt collar falls away from his skin and the freckles spattered along Ben’s jaw. 

“Like I said, we can not do this. Or,” and Ben takes a deep breath. When he lets it out, the warm air brushes over Sammy’s neck and collarbone. He shivers. “Or we can keep going. Do whatever, uhm. Whatever we’re comfortable with.” 

Hysteria is bubbling up in the back of Sammy’s throat, because Ben is  _ not _ propositioning him on a weekend evening lying on a couch that still has sugar glider fur nested into the cushions and popcorn hidden in every fold. 

No, fuck that, Ben is not propositioning him at all. This cannot be happening to him. 

“I could. Maybe use an answer, though, either way?” Ben suggests. He coughs a little, shifts his weight from one knee to the other. The motion accidentally tugs on the fabric of Sammy’s own pants, friction rubbing along his dick. Sammy catches his whine seconds after it begins, but not soon enough to stop Ben from noticing it. 

Sammy’s brain finally catches up with the past conversation history and he’s practically tripping over himself to nod enthusiastically. “Yes, I mean.  _ Jesus _ , Ben, yes.” 

He leans forward to kiss Ben again, but Ben sits back far on his knees. There’s a hint of that pleased grin playing around his face again. “Yes, what?” 

And, well. Sammy is finally on the same page as his dick here, and two can play at this game. He leans back across the couch and lets go of Ben’s hand to cross his arms behind his head, splaying himself out as much as he can without moving Ben. “Yes, sir,” he teases. Sammy can’t be sure, but it really looks like Ben chokes on his own tongue for a second. 

“Shit, Sammy!” Ben splutters. “Warn a guy next time.”

And this is pushing it, Sammy’s already gotten further than he thought he could ever even hope for. But if it all goes wrong, he can pretend he’s still drunk, right? Just an accident? 

“Already planning a next time, Ben?” he asks, tipping his head to one side in what is ostensibly a questioning gesture. In practice, it’s more of an excuse to get Ben to look at Sammy like he wants to eat him alive. 

Sammy is a lot better at this flirting thing than he remembers being.

Or maybe it’s not him alone, and it’s not Ben, either, but it’s the both of them together. It’s not like they don’t flirt enough on air half the time. Their easy banter transfers from their show to whatever this is much more easily than Sammy would have guessed. 

Ben flicks his nose and Sammy snorts in surprise and looks up at him. “Impatient much?”

Ben shrugs. “No rush.” No matter how much he tries to keep his mouth straight, he can’t conceal that damn smirk in his eyes or the color rising high on his face. 

“Oh, well, if we’re taking this slowly,” Sammy says, raising an eyebrow because he knows Ben hates that Sammy can raise one eyebrow and he can’t. He keeps his hands where they are, interlocked behind his head, and just looks at Ben.

Ben blushes under the attention, but he doesn’t look away. He doesn’t cringe back or cross his arms across his chest to hide, he just turns bright red and tips his head so he can look at Sammy from under his lashes like a goddamn pin-up girl.

“Can I, um.” Ben clears his throat. “Can I take off my shirt?”

“You have no idea how okay I am with that idea,” Sammy blurts out. Ben shifts a little in his lap and it’s Sammy’s turn to blush, because, well.

Ben pulls his t-shirt over his head without ceremony, and look. It’s not like Sammy hasn’t seen Ben shirtless before. They’ve been friends for three years and King Falls summers get hot. But he’s never seen Ben shirtless like  _ this _ , when he has all the consent and time in the world to look as much as he wants.

“God, Ben,” he breathes. “Fuck.”

Ben squirms under the attention, and Sammy, after years of wondering, finally gets visual confirmation that the blush does indeed spread from his neck down onto his chest and torso. He goes to unclasp his hands, feel Ben’s skin under his palms, and before he even really thinks about it finds himself looking at Ben for—for what, he’s not sure.

Ben nods at him, and Sammy can’t see an ounce of hesitation in his expression. 

He wants this. Maybe as much as Sammy does. 

Sammy sets his hands on Ben’s shoulders. The muscle there is smooth and warm under Sammy’s fingers, the occasional mole or scar interrupting the expanse. There’s just so much skin on display right now and it’s all very good and Sammy hasn’t had something like this in so long. He’s breathing hard from just this alone.

“You alright, buddy?” Ben asks.

Sammy leans forward, rests his head against Ben’s collarbone.

The view this gives him (of Ben’s chest and the soft curve of his stomach, not to mention the semi he’s sporting, obvious in his skinny jeans) is not intentional, but  _ is _ extremely good. 

“I’m… I’m great,” he gets out. Even with Ben spread out before him, Sammy has to close his eyes. He breathes in and out, timing the rhythm of his breathing to Ben’s. Ben rests his forearms on Sammy’s shoulders. As Ben slowly cards his hands through Sammy’s hair, everything begins to click into place. He doesn’t quite have it yet, but… he’s getting there. 

Ben is by his side—well, Ben is technically on top of him. But he’s here, is what matters. He’s here, and Sammy’s here. This isn’t a dream or a prank. It’s not something he’s going to have to pretend never happened the next morning.

Or at least, he hopes it’s not. 

Probably better not to ask. 

“Are you sure?” Ben asks, and Sammy can practically hear the way his brow creases in concern, how his mouth hooks down at one corner. “I meant what I said earlier. If you don’t wanna do this now, or even ever, Sammy, it’s just... I just don’t want to mess this up.” 

Ben’s chest vibrates with his voice. The gentle buzz is comforting, and Sammy takes one last deep breath before looking back up at Ben. 

Sammy’s been lost in Ben’s eyes for years now, but for just a moment he thinks he knows the way. “I promise, Ben,” he says. Neither of them break eye contact; Sammy keeps his voice low and gentle. “I know I get—nervous, sometimes. But trust me when I say a whole pack of werewolves couldn’t drag me away from you right now.” 

Ben wrinkles his nose. “Knowing the werewolves of this town, I feel like they’d rather—”

“Whatever you’re about to say, I think I’m better off not knowing.” 

At that, Ben laughs and leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. “Absolutely no more werewolf talk,” he agrees. And then they’re smiling at each other and it’s no different from any night in the studio together. Flirting thinly disguised as banter, hands brushing as they reach past each other for equipment, grinning and laughing until they’re both wheezing and their faces hurt. 

It all hits Sammy at once and the words tumble out of him without a moment’s hesitation. “Can I kiss you?” His question breaks their moment, making way for something entirely different. He isn’t as afraid of that difference as he used to be. 

Ben nods so enthusiastically that their heads knock together, but then their lips are touching and Sammy could not care less about any bumps. 

The way Ben kisses… the only thing Sammy can compare it to is the way he worked on that notebook, all that time ago. The intense focus he brought to it, the passion and energy. He frames Sammy’s face with his hands and kisses him like he’s trying to keep him here on this couch forever, tangled up together. Sammy gives as good as he gets, nipping at Ben’s lower lip until Ben is whining into his mouth and grinding down on Sammy’s lap. 

“Clothes,” Ben breathes. “They should be… no.” 

“Setting clothes to no,” Sammy agrees, because he’s too turned on to tease right now. Teasing Ben would just tease Sammy by proxy. He almost gets stuck in the collar and sleeves of his shirt, and by the time he’s gotten it off Ben has already unbuttoned his own jeans and shoved them as far down his thighs as he can without getting off of Sammy. 

Sammy huffs out a laugh because, really, they’re going to do this like teenagers in the back of a car on Makeout Point and he can’t  _ not _ laugh. 

Also, Ben’s boxers have tiny aliens on them and it’s the funniest thing Sammy has seen all year. 

“Don’t say anything,” Ben demands before Sammy even opens his mouth. Sammy just smiles at him, innocent as a June afternoon, and rubs circles on Ben’s sides with his thumbs. 

“About what?” he asks. He bends over to kiss Ben’s chest and maybe adds a bit more teeth than strictly necessary. 

Ben shakes his head. “You’re awful,” he breathes, but he can’t stop smiling and making little sounds when Sammy grazes his skin with his teeth, so Sammy’s fairly certain he doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t sit back up until there’s a mark pink as new roses on Ben’s chest, where it may be hidden by a shirt regularly, but Sammy and Ben both will  _ know _ it’s there. 

“Maybe I could use my mouth for something else?” Sammy suggests.

Ben pants and presses his palm to his dick through his boxers. “Sammy!” he gets out. “You can’t just—I’m gonna fucking come in my pants like an idiot, you gotta—Jack in the Box  _ Jesus _ , dude!” 

“You sound remarkably offended for a man whose dick I just offered to suck. Here, kneel up.” Sammy tugs on Ben’s hips and Ben follows, allowing Sammy to pull him up till he’s kneeling. If Sammy shifts, slides a little bit lower on the couch… then he’s eye level with Ben’s hips. 

He hooks his thumbs into Ben’s waistband and glances up at Ben before tugging his underwear down just far enough to free his cock. 

Ben is the picture of barely-contained lust; he's biting down on the knuckle of his thumb and his chest is heaving with the effort of keeping himself contained. Sammy smirks. They’ll see how long Ben can keep quiet. 

He mouths over the head of Ben’s dick, hot and solid on his lips. It’s been a long, long, time since Sammy has done this. But if the strangled moan Ben makes when Samy tongues at the base of the head of his cock is any indication, he’s still pretty damn good at it. 

It’s easy to let the rest of the world fall away in this moment. Everything comes down to this: Sammy’s hands on Ben’s hips, the taste of Ben all salt and sharpness flooding his mouth, the bitten off whines Ben can’t seem to muffle. 

One of Ben’s hands comes to rest on Sammy’s neck, cupping the back of it. Not pushy or aggressive, just holding him near. Steadying him. 

Sammy hums in appreciation and takes Ben further into his mouth. He lets go of one side of Ben's hip to work over the base of Ben's dick that he can't quite get into his mouth. Ben nearly folds over him, knees digging into Sammy's chest and breathing like he's just run a marathon. “Sammy, Sammy, please, I'm gonna—” He can barely get the words out but he keeps talking, babbling Sammy's name like a homily. 

He takes a deep breath in through his nose, sinks down as far as he can, and hollows his cheeks. His nose nearly brushes the thatch of dark hair between Ben’s legs and there is no way he can keep this up for long without choking or coming all over himself from how unfairly hot Ben is.

Ben  _ keens _ , and Sammy pulls off for a second. He doesn’t move far away, staying close enough that he knows Ben will be able to feel the heat of Sammy’s breath ghosting over his skin. “Come on, Benny,” he murmurs, and slides his mouth back over Ben’s cock just in time for Ben to breath his name and come in his mouth. 

Sammy makes a face but swallows as much as he can, wiping anything he didn’t quite catch off the corner of his mouth. 

“Shit,” Ben sighs. Sammy can’t help it, he starts to laugh. It shouldn’t be funny, but he just… He can’t believe that the two of them are here. Sammy can still fucking taste Ben in his mouth. Ben himself is goddamn gorgeous, all fucked-out and flushed in Sammy’s lap, underwear down around his knees. And that isn’t even mentioning how he’s still sitting basically on top of Sammy’s dick, moving in a very distracting manner. 

It has been years since Ben walked into the sound booth with Sammy and told him ghosts preferred to be called  _ apparitions _ , and Sammy hadn’t even believed in ghosts, but he’d believed in Ben. 

And now they’re here. 

This scenario hadn’t been, as Ben would put it, outside the realm of extreme possibility, but that doesn’t mean Sammy ever thought it would actually happen. 

“Oh—” Sammy gasps, pulled out of his introspection by Ben undoing his belt and fumbling with his zipper. 

Ben grins at him. “Not gonna leave you hanging, buddy.” He looks so happy, the smile on his face wide enough to be visible even in the dim room. “Okay if I help you out?” 

Sammy lets his head fall back against the couch cushions, closing his eyes. “If you stop helping I swear to God, I will quit the show for real.” 

“Don’t joke about that, man!” 

He’s got his hand around Sammy’s dick, though, so it’s a little hard to focus on what he’s saying. Sammy is slick with his own precome, a little embarrassingly so, leaking over Ben’s fist as he thumbs over the slit at the top. 

It is taking a lot of self control not to twitch his hips up into Ben’s grip. 

Ben leans over; he nips at the line of Sammy’s throat and whispers, “Sammy, buddy, you don’t have to hold back.” He works his fingers along Sammy’s cock, almost too gentle with him. “I gotcha.” 

The whining sounds Sammy is making are, frankly, ridiculous, but he can’t seem to stop. Ben keeps murmuring praise into his neck and sucking red marks into his skin that he is  _ not _ going to be able to hide tomorrow, and it is getting to Sammy in the best way.

“So handsome,” Ben tells him. His breath is hot against Sammy’s neck and his hands are hot on Sammy’s dick and Sammy is going to  _ explode _ . “You make me better, you know, you make the  _ show _ better, it’s never been just one or the other. It’s gotta be both of us. Together,” he finishes, and bites hard on Sammy’s collarbone. 

Sammy groans and spills over Ben’s hand. 

Ben works him through the aftershocks till Sammy squirms away from the overstimulation and shakes his head to stop Ben. Once Ben’s sure Sammy’s done, he sits forward to kiss his jaw. “You good?” 

Sammy just sighs a little in agreement, too overcome for words. 

“I’ll be right back,” Ben promises. “Gonna grab some, like, tissues, or something. Also… clean clothes.” 

“Mhhm. Sounds good,” Sammy mutters as Ben slides off of his lap to go do those things. Sammy hasn’t even opened his eyes yet; there is no way he’s getting up.  Sooner rather than later his pants are going to get sticky and gross, but he can’t bring himself to care just yet. He’d much rather just keep lying here, taking in how the whole room smells like sex and solidifying the memory of Ben’s hands on him.

Footsteps shuffle toward him and he cracks an eye open. Ben’s wearing what has to be a pair of Sammy’s sweatpants, because the waistband is loose enough to hang scandalously low and the hems drag on the ground a good couple of inches past Ben’s feet. He’s carrying another pair of sweatpants and an entire roll of paper towels, which Sammy is absolutely going to tease him about later. 

“Hi,” Sammy mumbles. Ben sits on the couch next to him and sets the pants on the back of it. 

“Hi yourself,” Ben says. “Can I clean you up?” His voice is soft and his eyes are softer, and Sammy can’t say  _ I love you _ just yet. Not romantically, not with the weight of everything they’ve just done together behind it. 

But he can nod and let Ben take care of him. He can have this one night, at least. They’re going to get cleaned up and fall asleep on the couch together, heedless of the void or the lights or Hulu asking if they’re still watching. 

The morning will come soon enough, and the two of them will be together when it does.

**Author's Note:**

> hello all it's me, samben mcgee. here with the PORN. and the FEELINGS. because for some reason NO ONE has posted explicit samben porn yet? it's a tragedy that i'm doing my best to remedy. thank you to teyla for the amazing beta and to nightvalethings for the wonderful cheerleading! :D


End file.
